This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (20 page)

Years later, the lies and rumors grew. One “rat,” Michael De-Leonardo, testified at my brother John’s trial that Dad had an affair with Neil’s daughter and as a result shared a “love child” with her. DeLeonardo told a packed courtroom that John had confided in him years earlier about Rosemary. Definitely not true. My brother would never repeat such a scandalous rumor—especially to an outsider. It was hurtful for us as a family. I can’t imagine what it did to Rosemary’s teenage daughter. Although I have to say, I was quite surprised at my mother’s reaction. When the rumor first surfaced and reporters shoved microphones in her face, she said, “I don’t believe it. But if I’m wrong, I would welcome this Gotti love child with open arms. Anyone with the same DNA as John Gotti would be accepted with open arms.” There never was a DNA test done.

Dad’s loyalty and support of Dellacroce came with a hefty price, too. Their relationship became troublesome when politics caused Dellacroce and Paul Castellano to drift apart both personally and professionally. When Dellacroce was passed up by Carlo Gambino and Paul was made the new Boss of All Bosses, Dellacroce took the slight quietly, like a man. He didn’t so much as grumble about it, whereas Dad was furious and let everyone know it. Under the old regime, rules were rules and loyalty was valued above all else. My father believed the insult was reason enough to go to war. But Dellacroce calmed his young protégé and insisted there was nothing to be done.

Usually, after a boss died, the position was automatically passed on to the underboss. This was done mainly to ensure that the family would be run properly and to stave off a possible mutiny from any of the overzealous captains waiting in the wings. Gambino made his decision based on nepotism—he wanted the organization to remain within his blood lineage. Castellano was married to Gambino’s sister, Katherine—and as a result he remained close to Carlo over the years.

Castellano came from a family of butchers. And using the influential connections of organized crime, he built a profitable empire for himself and his sons that extended to many major supermarket chains like Key Food and Waldbaum’s. America’s white-bred food meccas were stocked with Castellano’s meats. Even household names like Frank Purdue sought Castellano’s advice on many occasions—and his help. When Purdue couldn’t get his chicken product on supermarket shelves, he “reached out” for Castellano. Years later, Purdue told FBI agents he did so because Castellano was “the Godfather.”

After Castellano was given the position of boss, rumors started swirling. Men high up in the Commission went to see Dellacroce.
These men were unhappy with Gambino’s choice of a successor. They were even less happy with Castellano’s favoritism toward his personal driver, Thomas Bilotti. It was rumored that Paul was grooming Bilotti to take Dellacroce’s place. This did not sit well with others involved in the organization. But there was little they could do. Gambino had made his decision—his brother-in-law, Paul Castellano, was the new boss.

My father continued his obligation and dedication to the life. In the early 1980s he expanded his gambling interests and set up a formal “betting parlor” around the corner from the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club in Ozone Park. The new parlor was in a larger brick building with an apartment on the second floor. It was appropriately called Our Friends Social Club, “Our Friends” being slang for “goodfellas,” a term associated only with “made” guys in the life. Dellacroce remained mostly at the Ravenite Social Club in Little Italy. His headquarters also had a two-story brick façade with an apartment above the club. The landmark structure was a historic mob hangout, dating back to Albert Anastasia and Lucky Luciano. In those days, both hangouts went unnoticed to passersby or tourists. Only neighborhood residents knew that these nondescript storefronts housed the toughest mobsters in New York, and people, mostly curiosity seekers, from all walks of life were attracted to these social clubs. Young and impressionable women from different neighborhoods would get dolled up at night, pile into a car, and cruise the mob hangouts all night long, hoping to be noticed or, better yet, invited in. Men not affiliated with these clubs prayed they could get invited inside, even join one of the card games or conversations over espresso and cannolis, just so they could race back to their friends and brag about having been granted entry to the underworld. Celebrities were also intrigued by Dad and his world, even Marlon Brando. Once Brando was having dinner with Matthew Broderick and Dad happened to be at the same
restaurant in Little Italy. Brando sent Broderick over to Dad’s table, wondering if Dad would join them for a drink. Dad declined. He wasn’t into celebrity worship. Just the same, he was polite to Broderick and even sent a bottle of champagne over to their table.

When Dad was leaving, he was approached by Broderick one more time, telling him, “It would be an honor if Marlon could say hello.” Dad was stubborn, but he was not rude. Finally, he allowed Brando inside the Ravenite Social Club in Little Italy. That night, the reel-life Godfather came face-to-face with the real-life Godfather.

I
was raised in a strict, traditional fashion to believe that a woman grew up, got married, and had children. In Italian culture, women were considered second-class citizens, similar to the way Muslim women are treated. In Italian households, women were relegated to the kitchen. Cooking and taking care of children were the only requirements needed to become a “respectable wife.” But being an ambitious young woman, I wanted more—a formal education and even a career. Unfortunately, my plans were curtailed when I learned that I was suffering from dysplasia, a common female condition that usually develops later in life after a woman has had multiple childbirths. But I was only eighteen, a student at St. John’s University and still a virgin when I was first diagnosed with the condition. I had begun to get what were called dysmenorrheic or
irregular periods. One such cycle lasted longer than a month. As a result I became anemic. There was nothing doctors could do to stop the bleeding, and nothing they could do until the bleeding stopped. I was forced to undergo testing and have invasive biopsies. When the results came back, they weren’t good. A week later, my mother and I were summoned to the doctor’s office in Manhasset, Long Island.

The look on Dr. Frances Stern’s face as she perused my file said it all, especially when she read the lab report. She described the condition to my mother, speaking as if I wasn’t in the room. She explained the different levels of the condition, and categorized me as “moderate-to-severe.” She said that there was a “very good chance your daughter will need a hysterectomy before she is twenty-five.” I was despondent. I desperately wanted children.

Dr. Stern went on to explain that if left untreated, the abnormality would almost certainly “develop into full-blown uterine cancer.” My mother had had a hysterectomy in her early thirties because of the same problem, and Dr. Stern confirmed that it was a hereditary condition. She went over the list of treatment options: “cryosurgery, or freezing of the pre-cancerous cells; laser surgery to burn off whatever was left over.” Neither sounded appealing to me, and I was still worried about a hysterectomy and the prospect that I might never have children.

I wanted what every young girl did at that age—I wanted it all. Prince Charming, a big beautiful house with a white picket fence, and lots and lots of kids. I also wanted a career as well.

At that moment I just sat there and stared straight ahead. I pretended that I was listening. All I could think about was how much Carmine was always talking about having kids, a son in particular. The doctor’s words left me speechless. I was hardly able to take in exactly what she was saying. But some things I’d heard loud and clear.

“If young Victoria wants children, I suggest that she gets married early and starts working on having a family as soon as possible.”

I had been dating Carmine for nearly three years now and we had been talking about getting engaged. And I knew Carmine was even shopping for a diamond.

Sitting beside my mother facing the doctor, I pretty much blocked out most of what she had said.

I had a lot of decision-making to do. Besides marriage, education was very important to me. I wanted to study law and go on to write legal thrillers. It had only taken one class in Criminal Justice to solidify my decision. Because I had skipped senior year, I was barely seventeen when I started college. My father was thrilled with my interest in law, and the fact that I wanted to be a writer, but Carmine was not as excited. He felt threatened and was very insecure when it came to my education. The mere thought that I might one day be even bigger than him professionally crushed him and his rather large ego. So he had given me an ultimatum: “Marriage or law school! I want a stay-at-home wife raising my kids.” I had been so upset, I couldn’t concentrate on my classes any longer. As fate would have it, he got his wish.

I
WENT HOME
from the doctor’s office with a heavy heart. I had some decisions to make. After careful consideration, I decided to get married and start a family. I wanted a career—but I wanted a family more. I decided to tell Dad I was not going to law school. He was crushed, and refused to speak to me for weeks. And when he finally did, he looked for ways to change my mind. He didn’t argue with the doctor. In the end, he blamed Carmine for the choice I’d made. Dad cursed the day he’d given Carmine and me his blessing to date.

It was then that Dad started really plotting to break Carmine and me up.

A
side from my health issues, there were other problems brewing in the Gotti household. These problems concerned my brother John, who was finishing his education at New York Military Academy. My parents received a phone call that John had not been attending his classes on a regular basis. He was still acting out as a result of my brother’s death. This infuriated my mother. She was used to keeping things from my father that concerned John, mostly out of fear that Dad would seriously hurt him one day, but this matter she brought to my dad almost immediately. And Dad made a special trip up to the military academy.

John had been sent away to school because my parents were both afraid that if he stayed home he would get mixed up with the wrong crowd. They believed my brother needed rigid structure and discipline. Mom had started to see a side to John when he was an
adolescent that she was not happy with. He was staying out later than usual and going to bars and clubs. Mom was afraid that John might grow to like “street life” so much that he would follow in Dad’s footsteps. That was the last thing she wanted for her oldest son.

Dad believed that New York Military Academy was a fine and respectable institution. I’m sure my father’s choice had much to do with the fact that Aniello Dellacroce’s nephew had graduated from the military academy. O’Neill raved about the school. My father considered it “honorable” to have
his
son walk down the same path.

My brother’s reaction to the news that he was going to the military academy was to rebel. John’s behavior started to change markedly for the worse. He began by changing his physical appearance with daily workouts in the school gym and a new wardrobe of fancy “Sunday” suits that replaced his usual attire of comfortable jeans or track suits. Even his taste in women changed. He went from dating the plain girl next door to being seen with the prettiest, flashiest girls in town. On weekends whenever he was home, he went out to the hottest nightspots with a different piece of arm candy each weekend. He also began enjoying the respect he received that went along with being John Gotti’s son.

I realized early on just how tough it must have been for John. Every son wants to grow up and fill his father’s shoes or carry on the family trade and name. But in my brother’s situation, he wasn’t just any son, with any ordinary father. Still, John was prepared to fight the urge. I can tell you that as far back as I can remember, my brother never wanted to grow up and fall victim to my father’s lifestyle. John would often speak to me about this when we were growing up. My father made his wishes clear early on that he did
not
want my brother to follow in his footsteps, but at the same time it was the only life John knew. It was the only trade that he was privy to. John believed that the only way he would really gain my father’s respect was to enter into the same life. Years later, I still believe my
brother thought it was expected of him. I also believe John’s change in behavior served as a means of getting my father’s attention.

This behavior did not sit well with my mother. She especially despised the bevy of newfound friends John had suddenly started to hang around with. They were local wannabe tough guys.

When Dad was called up to school because John was skipping classes, all hell broke loose. My father hit John for the first time. He punched him in the face, he was that angry.

But the incident did little to scare John. In fact, he “acted out” even more. The following weekend my brother, tired of waiting for his monthly leave, had a friend call the academy pretending to be a relative. He’d told the dean there was a “crisis at home” and that “John had to leave.” With a permission slip in hand, my brother boarded the bus and headed back to Queens. He had already made arrangements to stay at a friend’s house. It was 1981; he was seventeen at the time and knew all the neighborhood hangouts. He decided to get off the Greyhound bus at 161st Avenue and Crossbay Boulevard in Howard Beach. It was a bus stop in front of a small card and cigarette shop called Party-Time. John entered the store, bought a few things, and headed to the back of the store to play a few games of pinball. He couldn’t imagine that our sister, Angel, would walk in to buy a pack of cigarettes just moments later. The owner of the shop, Mike, knew our family and said to Angel, “Imagine my luck, seeing two Gottis on the same night.” Knowing I was home sick, Angel recalled that she was quite perplexed. Mike told her that my brother was “just in” and that he “could swear he was still in the back playing pinball,” so my sister went to the back of the store to see for herself. But by then, hearing his sister’s voice, John had slipped out the back and was hiding in the parking lot.